by Kat T. Masen
“Are we doing the right thing, Jase?”
His voice croaked, but quick to compose himself, he smiled and (as always) managed to say the right words.
“We are just so comfortable. I didn’t . . . never mind.”
“No, tell me, you didn’t what?”
He hesitated at first, then opened up, attempting to relay his emotions. “I didn’t think we would fall into this rut so quickly. You hear all the time that couples get married and the relationship becomes a routine.”
Remaining quiet, I gave myself a moment to get my words right. “You expect raw and wild sex at random moments, dinners at fancy restaurants, making out at the movies, but it’s not like that.”
He chuckled heartily. “Presley Malone, I will sure miss your ways. I’m hoping the next relationship I have won’t shoot me for placing my black socks in the same row as my white.”
Ouch, that stung a little.
Brush it off, you wanted this. Yes, you loved him dearly, you’re just not in love with him anymore. You knew it wasn’t right, you knew you wanted more. More what though?
“But this is so calm. Aren’t breakups supposed to be full of tears and throwing bags of clothes out the window?” I asked.
“Yeah, maybe, but we’re beyond that. I’ll always love you, Pres. But this . . . this is the best for us. We owe it to each other,” he reaffirmed.
He was right. We had given each other five great memorable years. I couldn’t have asked for a better person to have shared that with, and now we both needed to see what else is out there in the world.
I wasn’t sure if it was proper breakup protocol to hug it out, but I leaned in anyway, and for the very last time I held on to Jason. His embrace was warm and familiar, and I knew that no matter what happens to me, wherever I go or whatever I do, I had a friend in Jason Hart.
We called off the wedding and parted ways.
Single. Again. At thirty-fucking-two.
Marriage, three kids, and that damn dream house just flew out the window.
What terrified me most was that maybe it wasn’t in the grand plan for Presley Malone. Maybe fate and the universe got together and said, “Hey, Miss Plan-It-Out needs to be taught a lesson in life. Let’s screw her sideways and see how she copes.”
The problem wasn’t fate or the universe—it was the biggest jerk of all time.
And unfortunately, now, I was bound to him.
Chapter Two
I am running a marathon, and beside me, others are speeding past, threatening to reach the finish line before I do. Run, Presley, run! The adrenaline is kicking in, and just at that point when my legs are about to give out and refuse to carry me any further, the black and white checkered flag comes into sight, waving proudly.
The end is within reach, only a few more minutes and you’ve crossed the finish line. Crowned first place. My heart is thumping loud, ready to burst out of my chest and collapse onto the ground. The sweat beads have formed and are dripping down my face. The time clicks over to thirty minutes and like a strike of glory, I hit stop.
My marathon was actually me running on the treadmill. My lungs hurt so much that I am this close to calling the cute personal trainer over to resuscitate me.
Okay, so I’m being a drama queen.
It’s way too early in the morning for this, and let’s not forget to highlight the fact that I am a gym virgin. I don’t mind a brisk walk or run in the park once in a blue moon, but the gym and I, we’re complete strangers.
Since Jason (my now ex-fiancé) moved out last week, I have come here almost every day hoping to relieve the anxiety and tension that consumes me. It’s not like we ended on bad terms. In fact, it was the best breakup you could have asked for. No tears, finances were divided evenly, and we decided to put the apartment on the market and split our profit.
I couldn’t have planned a more amicable breakup. That was the problem here. It was going way too smooth, and I sensed something looming on the horizon. No matter what I did I couldn’t shake it off, and so here I am today, sore and working out like I’m about to enter a real marathon.
Maybe I’m telling a little white lie. Yes, there is no doubt that the anxiety is also stemming from the fact that I feel I have no sense of order in my life, but for the most part, I find the gym surprisingly entertaining.
I have absolutely no life right now, and I’m one step away from joining a pottery class.
The treadmill has become my newfound friend. The running becomes mundane at times, which is why I zone out and pretend to run a marathon or watch others around me in amusement. Take last week, for example. A man fell off the treadmill as a ridiculously made-up gym bunny walked past.
In my first week I had learned a few things; some treated the gym like a sport, dressed head to toe in spandex, often a little too tight around the groin. The wannabe Arnies huddled in the weights area, grunting and throwing around the barbells as if they were inflatable balloons. You could smell the steroids and testosterone a mile away.
There were some cute men in the Zumba class, but I suspected that those men were eyeing the cute Zumba teacher and his perfectly sculpted ass. Boy, does he know how to shake his bonbon.
Today’s entertainment consists of the two ladies attempting to do yoga on the mats in front of me. I grab my towel and wipe myself down before I sit on the floor beside them. Trina works at a marketing firm on level ten. We run into each other often and got to talking one day. She’s a nice enough gal, a little naïve, which is expected since she’s in her early twenties.
“Be honest, I’m hot right?” Trina asks, looking at both me and the woman beside her. “Oh, Presley, this is Sarah, she works on six.”
I smile at Sarah, and she smiles in return. We then look at each other awkwardly; are we meant to answer Trina? Or was it a rhetorical question?
Sarah rolls her eyes at Trina, yet indulges her with a response. “Look, Trina, of course you’re hot. Get over him, sounds like a douche to me.”
“But . . . but we had a connection,” she says innocently.
Sarah snorts. “The only connection you had was when he stuck his pecker in your bird hole. A dime a dozen, Trina. Let it go.”
In my uncomfortable pose, I try my hardest not to laugh at Sarah’s comment, but I do and attempt to cover it up by leaning forward and stretching my legs to the point that they scream in agony.
“It wasn’t just about sex, we flirted for weeks. He even mentioned something about visiting his mom.”
“Oh, the mom card. That’s pretty serious,” I say.
Trina nods in agreement, looking heartbroken.
With a hint of sarcasm, Sarah asks, “Uh-huh, and remind me again what happened?”
“He left in the middle of the night without saying goodbye and has avoided me ever since,” Trina mumbles.
“Okay, so put your big-girl panties on and forget about him!”
This time, I agree with Sarah. Only a loser would do that, and the worst part was, this is what I had to look forward to being single.
“I have to agree with Sarah—he doesn’t seem worth it. You’re young, beautiful, and surely could find better fish in the sea.”
“But he’s the prime catch,” she pouts.
Sarah butts in, “And tell Presley who paid for dinner that night, the cab ride back to the hotel, and the hotel room?”
Trina appears to be agitated at Sarah’s blast of information.
“It was a misunderstanding.”
“Right, as was the accidental text he sent to you that was meant for another woman about how he was going to screw her brains out the night after he left you?”
Ouch.
“Trina, do yourself a favor and seriously grab another fishing rod because he is so not worth your time.” With my water bottle and towel in hand, I stand up to head on out. “Listen, ladies, I have to get to work. Sarah, do not let her go anywhere near this douchebag.”
Sarah salutes me. “Once a douche . . . always a douche.”
***
After showering at the gym, I dress in my new designer white blouse for the very first time. It took me forever to save up for it. In fact, I had several bank accounts which I coordinated with my paycheck and finally my ‘special’ account had enough money to purchase this gorgeous blouse. It taunted me for weeks in that boutique window. I am so in love with it that I spend minutes staring at the mirror, eyeing myself from every angle. To complete the outfit, I wear my vintage grey pleated skirt. It kind of looks like those skirts we used to wear in school, but it’s my absolute favorite piece.
With my black pumps on, I shove my gym gear into my bag and quickly apply some makeup. If I’m on the market, I need to take better care of myself. Then it dawns on me, how unfamiliar it is to be alone, and the thought of finding someone new fills me with fear. Thank the lord I’m not Trina though, and being thirty-two should make me wise enough to avoid the douchebags that lurk in the city.
My hair is always quick to misbehave so I quickly run some product through it and let it out. I may control and plan everything in my life, but my hair will forever be untamed. Bouncing curls may be ideal to some; I call it a walking disaster.
It’s just before nine when I make my way into the office, and there is nothing more enjoyable than sitting in a quiet office before all the mayhem begins.
I have been working at Lantern Publishing for almost ten years, starting as a junior and working my way towards my goal of Editor. It’s not as big as other publishing houses but we retain good staff, and together, we work well.
At times, my job is repetitive, reading manuscript after manuscript with no end in sight. Occasionally, that golden egg hatches and there is nothing more exciting than holding that next bestseller in your hands.
After working long hours last week, I feel confident pitching a new manuscript to my co-editors in a few hours. My presentation is ready to go, and I have prepared myself for the usual questions or negative comments that arise.
My steaming hot tea sits on my coaster beside my computer monitor. Allowing it to cool down, I arrange my pens in order from shortest to longest and place my Post-It notepad in exact alignment with the pens. I glance over at the clock and the second it flicks to nine, I turn my computer on and start scouring through my emails.
The noise starts to invade the office floor and colleagues drag themselves in, fleeing to their cubicles as they talk above the partitions. I try my best to avoid the distraction, but office gossip is difficult to ignore especially when the office skank, Dee, starts talking about her Saturday night. Talk about loose lips (and I don’t mean the ones on her face).
I reach for my mug and throw the tea bag into the trash, pulling the mug towards my lips. I allow the steam to linger when all of a sudden my seat jerks forward and part of my tea lands on my keyboard and blouse.
“What the f—”
The hot liquid scalds my skin and I turn to see who knocked into me so carelessly.
“Office 101, no cussing in the workplace.”
I grit my teeth in an effort to control my temper. My vision is all red, with his face as a target.
The fucking asshole.
Do not encourage childish behavior. I’m not giving him anything to work with, grabbing my tissues in an attempt to wipe down my blouse. The brown stain seeps through the loose white fabric. Just fucking great. Months of saving for the ridiculously expensive blouse only for it to be covered in tea. I want to cry. Would I be judged if I cried over spilled tea?
His hands land firmly on my seat and he swivels me around till we are facing each other. I am ready to blow and give it to him, but am distracted as he grabs some tissues, attempting to wipe down my blouse.
“Um, excuse me? Get your filthy hands off me!”
I push his hands away, his widening smirk indicating how much he is enjoying this.
“Sorry about that, you’re just a little wet and stained.”
“Well, no shit. The next time you want to play dodgem cars with your office chair, have some respect for your colleagues around you,” I huff.
“Aww, what’s wrong, Miss Malone? Sounds to me like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
I stop wiping my blouse, abruptly moving my head till my eyes meet his. Never having paid this much attention to him before, I stare directly into the hazel eyes that sit behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses. Tiny freckles are scattered around his nose and his annoying smirk is accentuated as his lips purse together. For some reason, my focus turns to his eyebrows, perfectly sculpted on his freshly tanned faced. Such a metrosexual. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hit the tanning salon along with a hot wax afterward.
The nerve of this fucking asshole to do this today, a Monday morning for Christ’s sake, when I have a presentation to do in one hour. And my poor, poor blouse. I had really high hopes that it would keeping me smiling throughout this whole ordeal. I no longer care what comes out of my mouth; Haden Cooper needs a fucking lesson in manners and I am just about to give it to him when he pulls my chair closer to him, catching me off guard with a devilish grin.
“You know, if you woke up with me, you’d always be on the right side of the bed.”
Is he serious? What a complete ass!
“Haden, thanks for nothing. Now get out of my way.”
I spend close to an hour in the bathroom, cleaning my blouse and standing in my bra, trying to dry off under the hand dryer. My heels tap impatiently against the floor tiles. Argh! The nerve of him! And to make it worse, what kind of a line was that? I replay the words in my head; like seriously, cheesiest line ever.
So stop thinking about it.
Thankfully, I borrow a blazer from a fellow employee and button it up to cover the stains. Providing the room stays at the same temperature, I can manage.
The boardroom is filling with colleagues and I prepare my materials, ready to stand at the front of the table. Having done this a dozen times, it has become second nature. Halfway through my presentation, the air becomes stifling hot and my armpits start to stick to the blazer. Did someone turn up the heat in here? It’ll be alright, as long as I don’t sweat where anyone else can see.
As I look at others seated around the table, some are peeling their jackets off while others use a piece of paper to fan their face. My eyes scan the table for the remote to the air con unit but cannot spot it for the life of me. There were a million questions asked, and normally I enjoy answering, but today I am a bitch in heat and ready to tear that smug look off Haden’s face. It’s clear that this presentation won’t end as quickly as I want it to, so I take the jacket off and watch as everyone stares at my stained blouse with curiosity.
“Enough with the staring, a moron spilled tea all over me this morning.”
“Sounds to me like you need to pay more attention to those around you,” Haden snickers.
I shoot him a death stare, ready to tear him a new one. I don’t think anyone dares to question me further, so I carry on and wrap up as quickly as possible.
Making my way back to my desk, I slam my notebook and pen down, nearly missing the showdown that is happening beside me.
“I know you didn’t want me to come up here, but you’ve been avoiding me.”
As the familiar voice continues, I lean my head slightly to see Trina at Haden’s desk.
Get out of town! Of course, he would do something like this.
The voices become muffled until Trina storms off, visibly in tears. I give it a few moments before standing up to confront him. He is leaning casually over Dee’s partition, and from where I can see, she is flashing some major leg. You’ve got to be kidding me. I know it’s none of my business, but I head over to where he is standing.
“Wow, it’s like you have no moral conscience whatsoever.”
“What’s your problem now, Malone?”
“You just don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself. I mean look at me, you don’t care that you’ve ruined a brand new blouse that cost me a hell of a l
ot of money, then you embarrass me in front of everyone in that presentation, and to top that off, you treat Trina like last night’s take-out box!”
Dee is shocked at my outburst and carefully pulls her skirt down to cover herself up. Haden is livid, and I swear if you look closely, you can see steam coming out of his ears. His eyes have narrowed behind his glasses, and in an effort to control himself, he runs his hands through his dirty-blond hair.
“Some mouth on you, Malone. You better watch your back. Human Resources would deem that as harassment.”
“Harassment? I’m the victim here, not you!”
I storm off, having spent enough time and energy on him that I forgot all about my best friend Vicky. She is sitting on my desk when I return, all smiles and giggles, having returned from Paris only yesterday.
“Ah Mademoiselle Malone,” she says in a thick, but fake, French accent.
Defeated, I slump in my chair. “Tell me about Paris, in your normal voice please?”
She sits on the corner of my desk, crossing her legs appropriately. Vicky and I met a couple years back through mutual friends. At the time, she was having an affair with the biggest loser to walk this earth, a married man with three kids. It ended badly so from that day on, Vicky vowed to never get into a serious relationship again, and was happy to play the field.
“The shopping was fantastic, totally maxed my credit card. The sightseeing was awesome and the men. . . . Pres, like seriously, the French men know how to make you scream so loud, I swear the people at the top of the Eiffel Tower could hear us.”
“A one-time type of thing?”
“You know me, Pres. I like my men foreign. Keeps the fantasy alive.”
“But aren’t you worried about what could happen after?”
“Like what? I’m always protected, you’ve got to make sure the both of you understand it’s a no-strings-attached kinda night. Anyway, I met this guy, Jean-Phillipe, and he’s been texting me all day.”